


Last Candle

by the_ragnarok



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-29
Updated: 2010-12-29
Packaged: 2017-10-16 01:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of of romance, data storage devices and the True Meaning of Hanukkah (that is, guerrilla warfare and setting things on fire).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Last Candle

**Author's Note:**

> Oy vey, Hanukkah songfic. ::hangs head in shame:: Originally written for hermette's winter meme, but seems to have been deleted from there.

Eames huddles closer in his coat. He may have been born and raised in England, but in recent years he had allowed himself to become accustomed to milder climes.

 _Trust Arthur to find the coldest possible place to hide in the middle of December_ , he thought, more bitter than accurate since despite his current unpleasantness there were far colder places than New York at this time. Siberia, for one, would have been worse. Or the Yukon. Or Antarctica. And it's not entirely unreasonable, after all, for Arthur to go to a large city to hide from the not-so-nice people currently hunting him.

It doesn't change the fact that Eames is freezing, soaking wet and in for-crying-out-loud-Brooklyn, so he rationalizes that he's entitled to some bitterness.

He knocks on the door of the nondescript apartment Arthur's renting, shoves his hand into his pocket without thinking and hisses when it touches something cold and metal inside. He's flapping the injured hand about like a pillock when Arthur finally deigns to open the door.

Eames expected a raised eyebrow, perhaps of the what-are-you-doing-here variety, but Arthur pulls him inside almost violently, hissing, "Inside. Quick. Be quiet."

Eames, who does not have to be told such things twice even when he isn't visiting highly wanted criminals, sits down and shuts up.

Arthur listens at the door for a moment, then allows himself to relax fractionally. "All right. They're not supposed to be here for an hour yet, anyway," he says. Before Eames can remark on the cryptic quality of this statement, Arthur gives him a calculating look and says, "There's something I need to do. Can you wait here a moment?"

Well, of course he _can_ , but where's the fun in that?

Arthur doesn't even look surprised when Eames pops up behind him in the apartment's tiny kitchen. Indeed, Arthur barely seems to notice him, busy as he is rooting through the kitchen cabinets.

"Arthur, really," Eames says, because this is a chance he can't miss. "Are you telling me that you don't know the precise location of everything in your residence?"

"Shut up," Arthur says, eyes focused straight ahead into the dark depths of the pantry, "or if you won't, be helpful and find me some matches."

Eames wordlessly takes a Zippo out of his pocket and flicks it. Arthur turns around and nods in approval. "Should never have given up smoking," Eames tells him.

Arthur takes the lighter and goes to the kitchen counter, where lie a packet of candles not dissimilar to the kind one might put on a birthday cake, and –

"Arthur," Eames says, charmed. "Is that a _menorah_?"

He does know, by virtue of Arthur's last name if nothing else, that Arthur's Jewish. But he'd never in a million years have believed him to be practicing.

"Your powers of observation," Arthur begins, and Eames shakes his shoulder, gently.

"Are astounding, I know. Well?" he prods, when Arthur stands there doing nothing. "Aren't you going to light the candles?"

Arthur gives him a look that Eames can't quite decipher, and pulls nine candles, one by one, out of the packet. He warms each candle-end with the lighter's flame before sticking them firmly in their sockets, except for the ninth candle, which he lights. He sings something under his breath, which Eames recognizes as a prayer, mostly because it has an 'amen' tucked on at the end.

Then Arthur sticks the ninth candle in its place (the middle socket, higher than the others) and starts singing something else. He's not loud – it's about the same level as Arthur's normal speaking voice – but it's easier to hear than the half-whispered prayers. Eames is startled to realize that even though he doesn't understand the words, they're familiar.

And besides that... Well, he's never known Arthur to sing off-key (ah, the versatility of talents used in the dream-sharing business never ceases to amaze Eames), but he's fairly sure the tune is wrong.

He means to ask Arthur about it, but as he raises his eyes, his words stick in his throat.

The kitchen lights have not been lit, and Arthur is standing in mostly-darkness with candle light flicking on his face, the flames reflected in his dark eyes.

"Ma'oz tzur yeshu'ati," Arthur sings, and some other words Eames can't quite follow. He doesn't have the most beautiful voice, but it's a voice that Eames is happy to listen to, perhaps for reasons best left unexamined.

His hands are clasped, and Eames looks at Arthur's fingers because it's safer than looking at his mouth and certainly, at the moment, than looking him in the eyes. If Arthur wore jewelry, the light would glint of the metal and shift the pattern of shadows on the walls. Although perhaps Eames shouldn't think about that.

Then Arthur stops singing and stares down at the candles, and something has to break. Eames chooses to break the moment. "I'd never have taken you for one to have holiday spirit," he says.

Arthur smiles, a small tired curve of his mouth. "I don't, really. Just this one."

"You like Hanukkah," Eames says, skeptical. Arthur's smile widens.

"It's a holiday about setting things on fire, eating fried food and singing about it." He leans back against a counter, looking at Eames like a challenge. "What's not to like?"

"Well, if you put it like that," Eames concedes.

He has no idea what Arthur might have said next, because the air is suddenly full of loud, tinny music, and Arthur goes pale and says, "Shit." He drags Eames by the hand back to the living-room, shoves him down until they're both hidden behind the couch.

The tinny music grows louder by increments, until Eames is fairly certain his eardrums will start bleeding. Then a somewhat-familiar strand of music plays, and Eames hums along until he's certain he remembers it.

"What is it?" Eames asks, quietly. Because the music, while frightening on its own level, does not suggest the more literal kind of corporate head-hunters, he adds, "Are we hiding from Daleks?"

Arthur cuffs him and mouths, "Quiet!"

For once, Eames obeys. Arthur's tense beside him, and Eames practically feels him jump when someone knocks on the door.

"The Lord loves you, son of Israel!" somebody yells from the other side. "This is a time of joy! Come and celebrate!"

Eames can't be certain, but he's pretty sure Arthur's shuddering with revulsion.

They remain like that, silent and hidden for the better part of an hour, until the noise abates. Arthur sighs in relief and stands, offering Eames a hand up.

Eames dusts off his trousers. "What was that?"

Arthur grimaces. "Chabad." At Eames' perplexed look, Arthur adds, "Perils of living in a mostly Jewish neighborhood. Religious organization, about as missionary as Jews are allowed to get. They're _loud_."

"So I've noticed," Eames says, dryly. "I can't see how they win anyone over if that's what they have to offer."

Arthur waves a hand. "Oh, that's new," he says. "Mostly they just have houses, like, everywhere around the globe. They invite you in, give you a cup of tea, sometimes a meal or a place to sleep." He makes a face again.

Eames raises his eyebrows. "Nefarious, truly."

Arthur plunks down on the couch. "Trust me," he says, looking up at Eames. "If there's something you learn from growing up with a Jewish mother, it's that free lunch usually ends up being the most expensive kind."

"Is that so," Eames says. His hand slides, not entirely of his own volition, into his pocket, feeling for what he'd intended to offer to Arthur. _It's only a data storage-device,_ he thinks, because he's a consummate liar and deceiving yourself is as good a practice as any.

A change of subject is probably in order. "That song you were singing earlier," Eames says. "I thought it was supposed to go like –" He hums the tune he remembers, the one that played so loudly in the air not moments ago.

Arthur's face softens a bit. "I can't believe you know that," he says. "What, did you recognize the words?"

Eames makes a noncommittal sound.

"It's not the same song, actually," Arthur says. "What you just hummed, that's a hymn. Very traditional. What I sang –" He shrugs minutely. "It's just a song. It quotes some of the same words, but it says something like..." Arthur frowns in concentration,

" _I'll come through the tunnels and the forts and the caverns,_ " he says, " _and trenches in the rock, and through lairs in the ground. There in the depth of darkness, silent and alert, my foe waits for me. Beware you of my kindness, beware you of my barbs, beware, my foe, of me._ "

"Okay," Eames says, after he's had a moment to parse that. "I can see why you like it. Guerrilla warfare and whatnot."

"It's the true spirit of Hanukkah," Arthur says, straight-faced. Then he blinks and gives Eames a narrow-eyed look. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Holiday sex?" Eames says, because he's too embarrassed to bring up the actual reason now, and that one's as plausible as any.

Arthur rolls his eyes, because apparently it's not. "Yeah, I don't think so." He sits on the rickety coffee-table and stares at Eames, patient.

Eames clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. "I, ah, may have come to make you an offer."

"Is it one I can't refuse?" Arthur inquires.

Eames' original pitch for this had, in fact, been one he thought Arthur couldn't refuse. He finds himself drastically reshaping what he meant to say, turning his arguments entirely upside down.

"Well," he says, only stalling a bit. "I was thinking."

"Yes?" Arthur prompts. _Since when_ , Eames thinks, a little dizzy, _is Arthur this patient?_

Well, forever, really. It's him being patient with _Eames_ that's new.

"I'd like us to work together," Eames says. "Exclusively," he adds, when Arthur's expressive eyebrows impart _you came all this way for a job?_. "I mean, I'm not getting any younger," and oh, do Arthur's eyebrows rise at that; Eames hastens to say, "I could really do with someone I trust at my back." _And you could do the same,_ he doesn't add, because whatever drove Arthur into hiding, it certainly wasn't Arthur's own incompetence, since that _doesn't fucking exist_.

There's silence for an eternal ten minutes, and then Arthur says, "I've heard worse ideas."

Not ringing praise, but Eames is an optimist. He smiles at Arthur, cautiously.

And then Arthur stands closer. "There's something else," he says. "I can tell."

"Well, the offer of holiday sex stands," Eames says, because it does, even if he knows full well that's not it.

"Out with it," Arthur says, not unkindly, and Eames slips his hand into his pocket.

"Just a token," Eames says. "Something nice to sweeten the deal, yeah?" He takes the small – _data storage-device_ , he reminds himself firmly – and hands it to Arthur. "It's got 8 giga-bytes of memory. I know it's not much by today's standards, but..." His voice fades under Arthur's unwavering stare.

Arthur's silent for a moment, then he says, flatly, "It's a ring."

"For easy carrying and concealment, yes." Eames is trying very hard not to squirm. He pulls out the data cable, cleverly done so it could be worn as a watch-chain, silver and gleaming. "You connect it like this," he gestures at the almost-invisible jack on the – yes, fine, _ring_ 's underside.

"It looks like a wedding band." Arthur's voice is almost inaudible. The last time Eames heard him like that, they ended up having to burn down the entire block to dispose of the evidence.

"Confuse the enemy," Eames says with cheerful desperation. "Nobody's likely to ask you to take a wedding ring off, are they?"

"Unless they know I'm not married." Arthur's voice is as dry as the weather isn't.

Eames' palms aren't as dry as he'd like them to be, either. "Well, it was just a thought," he says, striving for casual. "It doesn't matter much, does it?"

Wonder of wonders, Arthur hesitates and says, "I just really don't see myself as a ring-wearing kind of guy."

"Well, I do," Eames says and slips the ring over Arthur's finger. And if Eames stressed the two last syllables more than was strictly called for, well, no one has to know.

Obviously, Arthur does notice, but he looks mainly amused. Eames breathes out in relief and gives Arthur his best leer.

"I really did mean it about the holiday sex, though," he says, because it doesn't hurt to try.

"Oh, come _here_ ," Arthur says, exasperated, and kisses Eames firmly and thoroughly.

They've done this in cheesy hotels and filthy back-alleys, in clubs where the thump of the beat drowned out the quiet sounds Arthur made, in – just once – a tent in a cold, wet forest where Eames' groans carried over the noise made by crickets and frogs.

This is the first time, Eames realizes, that they've done this in a place that could be remotely considered as belonging to one of them. Perhaps his timing was more opportune than he'd thought.

Afterwards, lying in bed and looking at Arthur lit by the streetlights outside, he traces Arthur's secret smile and says, "What?"

"If you were a woman," Arthur says in a confiding sort of tone, and then shakes his head and waves off the rest of the sentence.

"If I were a woman, what?" Eames is intrigued, in spite of himself, and maybe the tiniest bit wounded. "Because I can be, for a good reason. I know you have a PASIV here somewhere."

Arthur shakes his head. "Never mind. It's stupid." He eyes Eames and sighs. "And you want to know anyway, and will pester me until I tell you."

Eames considers uttering something about the futility of resistance, but honestly he's made enough silly references for one night. He nods instead.

"Did you know," Arthur says, in a pedantic tone of voice, "that according to Jewish religious law, you're technically married to a person once you have sex with them?"

That was not what Eames has been expecting. "Really," he says, a bit weakly.

"Well, if everyone is of the 'correct'," Arthur air-quotes, which Eames refuses to find charming, "sex and religion. And of course you need to have two witnesses for validity." Arthur's smile is all pointy white teeth in the darness. "Makes it official."

"Good thing there's nobody here but us, then," Eames manages, but Arthur's gaze is sharp, and it cuts right through Eames' bullshit. Always has, really, which if Eames is inclined to ponder this (he absolutely isn't, for the record) it is the crux of this entire relationship, if he's to call it that.

Sadly, he can't quite think of anything else to call it.

But that line of thought can lead a man to brooding, which Eames resolutely refuses to do when he can curl up around Arthur and sleep instead. So he does that precisely, embarrassingly pleased when Arthur kisses the top of his head and whispers, "Good night."

Arthur's there in the morning, too – well, where else would he be, this is his apartment – but Eames is still enjoying the newness of this phase of their relationship, where neither of them feels the need to disappear before dawn.

He thoroughly enjoys the fact that he can watch Arthur stretch (really, he could watch that for hours) and mumble something about coffee and breakfast, and they end up getting dressed and going foraging.

Arthur finds them someplace decent enough. As he fiddles with the menu, a sudden glint of light off his finger catches Eames eye.

 _Holy shit,_ he thinks, slightly dazzled. _Arthur's_ wearing _the bloody_ ring. He wonders whether he ought to call Arthur's attention to that when Arthur sees where Eames' eyes are directed and gives him a fond, exasperated look.

By rights, Eames should be worried about how transparent he is to Arthur. But then again, there should be trust between partners, shouldn't there.

"Hey," Arthur says suddenly. "Did you get one for yourself, too?"

Eames doesn't bother trying to pretend he has no idea what Arthur's talking about. "Yeah," he says instead, showing it to Arthur. The ring Eames got for himself is solid gold, wider than the sleekly-designed titanium band he got for Arthur.

"Suits you," Arthur says after a moment's thought. "Can I--?"

Eames hands it to him for closer inspection. Arthur takes it and puts on the frown that Eames loves so well, looking it over.

A couple of teenage boys sit down in the table opposite them, not even bothering to mask the way they're staring at Arthur. Eames can't tell if it's due to how close Arthur and he are sitting, or possibly because Arthur is wearing a three-piece suit at seven in the morning. Eames tries his best to look intimidating.

"You look constipated," Arthur says, not looking up from his close examination of the ring. "Stop trying to scare them off." He looks up and smiles, impishly. "Remember, important decisions need two witnesses to make them official."

Eames blinks, and licks his lips without thinking. "Does that mean you'll run off with me, then?"

He wishes that question had been an innuendo rather than painfully straightforward. He doesn't know if he hopes Arthur takes it at face value or not.

Arthur nods, slowly. "I think I will, Mr. Eames." He gestures, and Eames gives Arthur his hand. As he slides the ring on Eames' finger, Arthur mumbles something Eames was quite probably not meant to catch.

Eames thanks his good hearing, then, and makes a resolution to seek translation for "Harey ata mekudash li" as soon as he has access to an internet connection.

**Author's Note:**

> \- _Harey ata mekudash li_ is a masculine version of part of the traditional Jewish wedding vow, "You are hereby sanctified to me with this ring according to the religion of Moses and Israel", which is said while putting the ring over the bride's finger.  
>  \- The song Arthur sings is [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yYNL2Ek0bRg), the hymn Eames refers to is [this one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_8ps9iJG9g).


End file.
